The Claiming of Prince Atys
by Val-Creative
Summary: It spreads far and wide through the last of the realms — any nobleman who can impregnate the young prince of Kerris will be showered with riches and titles and anything else their heart desires. Nicolas is no longer a young man at forty-and-two, but he travels lightly. After all, some of King Domenyk's blood runs through his veins. Blood will be his legacy.


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No one alive remembers the terrors of The Dark Plague — a wicked, _magic_ -bred phantasm that only affected humans. Some say it had been the old gods, punishing them for their lack of devotion and shrines, and others blamed warlocks that lived in the forests and isolated in the mountains.

According to storytellers, the villagers began to notice one of their own _invulnerable_ to the pus-filled boils and tremors and the rest of the deadly, violent symptoms. And how physically closer someone became to this villager, the higher were their chances of surviving The Dark Plague and developing an absolute immunity.

Soon enough, half of the village were no longer afflicted.

They overthrew the old, cowardly king of their lands, declaring the villager their newest sovereign and ordered the physicians to leech Queen Lucina and her family for their blood. A single drop within blackberry wine or ale would instantly cure any stricken, dying babe or man.

Eventually, the plague vanished… but not the _worship_ for the Queen. She betrothed a King from the Western Sea, their union celebrated and well-fortuned after Queen Lucina bore eight sons.

Eight royal princes for the original eight realms of Kerris.

Five of them perished before their seventh name-day, leaving no heirs and their holy named kingdoms to be split apart and ravaged by wildlings and heathens. And the rest of her sons disgraced their name, drowning themselves in luxuries and greed, becoming felled by the sword or poisoned by their weaker enemies.

One of Queen Lucina's youngest sons became the King to All Lands of Kerris, who fought bravely, who showed no mercy to those who opposed him, respected and honored by his court and his people.

Nicolas has only heard of his deeds and triumphs, but never what his _father_ looked like.

And never would. The rumors were his father's soul left after taking a stag's antler directly into his heart, while wrestling the monstrously huge beast to the ground, not even a fortnight ago.

The King's son — the _trueborn_ son — now holds the gilded, illustrious throne.

 _Unchallenged_.

It spreads far and wide through the last of the realms — any nobleman who can _claim_ and impregnate the young Prince Atys of Kerris will be showered with riches and titles and anything else their heart desires. He's no longer a _young_ man at forty-and-two, but Nicolas travels lightly.

King Domenyk's blood runs through his veins.

 _Blood_ will be his legacy.

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 **.**

There's only a handful of nobles awaiting in the corridor, and he murders them all, quietly stepping behind them and slicing open their throat with his steel-bright dagger, lowering them to the floor.

One-by-one, they gurgle softly and quiver, their eyes becoming milky-pale in death.

Nicolas pushes open the bedchamber door with his fist, sniffing the air and wrinkling his nose in disgust. It's most certainly the scent of an ongoing Rut, heated and musky-noxious.

Upon the grand and immaculately white bedding, a nobleman with a silken, purple kirtle and stockings humps fiercely between Prince Atys's legs. He's no more than a _worm_ with a pinched expression and a lump of glossy, blond hair on the center of his balding skull. Nicolas observes the feet and toes attached to muscular, sandy-tan legs clenching uselessly around the nobleman's hips, opening further at the next jarring, grunting thrust. There's a filthy _poetry_ in this kind of subjection.

He locates the nobleman's sword-belt and picks up the sword, approaching and launching himself onto the nobleman, kneeling them up. Nicolas drags the newly sharpened steel right through his chest.

Dark red blood blooms onto the purple doublet, spewing onto the bedding and onto Prince Atys.

Nicolas tosses the dying man onto the cold, grey stone-floor, now eyeing his prize. Instead of becoming panicked or struggling to free himself from his rope-bindings, Prince Atys merely gazes up at him with a neutral, _drugged_ expression. He's a beauty. Soft, rosy-brown nipples peeking out from the V of his unlaced and now crimson-splattered tunic. Plump lips. His tiny, erect cockling juts out from the heavy thatch of golden-brown curls, and Nickolas knows it will taste _divine_.

The prince cannot be more than twenty, and has the identical seaglass-blue of Nicolas's eyes. Their father's eyes. Nicolas's mother had been considered _plain_ and frumpy, but the King seemingly had his way with her regardless on a tavern-bed, degrading her, forcing her to conceive Nicolas.

"Was he the first?" Nicolas asks curtly, gaining no response but an eye-blink. He slaps Prince Atys across the face, hard enough to leave a welt, finally listening to a slow, high-pitched yelp.

His bearskin-gloved hands grab over those lean, brown thighs. Nicolas crawls into the nobleman's position, looking down and probing for the Omega's folds hidden in thick, golden-brown curls. He locates his entrance, jabbing his forefinger and middle finger within him, stretching Prince Atys out and _pushing_ as deep as he can go, attempting to roughly scrape out any telltale cum.

" _Hhn_ …"

"Did he leave his seed in you?" Nicolas's dark, bushy eyebrows furrow, when the other, younger man timidly mumbles out. "Speak up, boy!" he roars, furiously gripping onto Prince Atys's thighs.

A wincing noise. "I-I don't… believe Lord Edmure did…" Prince Atys breathes out, carefully going up on his elbows and staring at the corpse down below. "You killed him …

"Take a good, hard look. I doubt you have ever seen a dead body like this before."

"Only my father…" Nicolas feels a _hot_ shudder of arousal coursing through him when the pheromones between them strengthen, and Prince Atys glances up at him through his blood-damp eyelashes. "You remind me of him," he says with a softer, forlorn lithe to his voice. "Tall… fearless… he would return through the gates covered in the warm and fresh blood of his latest kill..."

Everything becomes hazy, near a breaking point, when Nicolas drops his weight over him, lowering himself and pressing their lips together. It's _brief_ before he kisses Prince Atys once more, devouring all sensations and moans, tasting the faint aftertaste of juniper berries.

With the aid of his dagger, Nicolas rips apart the stained, red-blotchy tunic. He doesn't bother undressing fully, but removes his dagger-belt and loosens his trousers to yank out his cock.

"Lay back and think of your duty."

Prince Atys squirms in place, flush-hot and whimpering when he witnesses Nicolas's cock slowly grow larger, its tip glistening obscenely. "I'm _wet_ …" he murmurs, trying to hoist up his legs.

Nicolas stops him, pressing them apart and holding them down. "There will be a whelp in your belly soon enough," he informs him, semi-oblivious to his own chuckle of amusement. "Be patient." Prince Atys's hips begin rolling upwards, as if urgently trying to _fuck_ on an invisible cock.

"I…"

His sentence chokes out of existence, when Nicolas's animal-skin gloved hand latches onto his neck, throttling him slightly. "Speak when I command it," Nicolas says gruffly, but watches as the other man keens, his cockling reddened and soaked in pre-cum, twitching noticeably. The brat _desires_ it.

Perhaps he truly desires to be owned, bred, _abused_ by a bigger, older man and Nicolas will do what he has to do to obtain the throne. Drool pours out of the corner of Prince Atys's mouth.

He releases him, as the younger man gasps for air, and touches over the sore flesh.

"You will remember the man to finally claim you," Nicholas proclaims, adjusting his engorged cock into his palm and grinding over Prince Atys's already slickened opening, nudging over the sensitive, pink folds. "Nicholas Taillon. The firstborn of King Domenyk of All Lands of Kerris."

There's a flash of dismay overtaking Prince Atys's seaglass-blue eyes, before he lets out a short scream of pain, Nicolas's cock slamming with its entire throbbing length inside him.

He's much too big for him, but it won't matter for long. Nicolas can already smell the Omega-pheromones easing any sensible, instinctual resistance left. Prince Atys's sandy-brown, long fingers curl together, still secured within the rope-bindings holding his arms rigidly above his head.

As endearing and lovely as this man is, Nicholas cannot afford to show weakness. He fucks into the prince at a brutal and intense pace, growling at the squelching, slapping noises of his balls hitting against Prince Atys's taint and his small arse. It would be _heavenly_ to stuff himself inside that rim, to fill not only his cunt with his Alpa-seed, but the fluttering, tight hole.

The birthing channel spasms around him, in effort to accommodate Nicolas's girth and the continuous, vicious thrusts. Prince Atys groans and sobs, closing his eyes when the knotting starts, his walls clamping down _harder_ and pulsing, milking Nicolas's cock for all of its gushing fluids.

"Hush," Nicolas says lowly, struggling to not move, tracing a kiss against the natural lift of Prince Atys's mouth. "Dry your tears. This is _our_ birthright."

"What is it… you desire…?"

Nicolas's seaglass eyes go as dark as the ocean's night-tide.

" _Your_ throne," he announces simply. The unexpected, widening grin on Nicolas's mouth rabbits the timid heart inside Prince Atys's breastbone. "I've already taken your little cunt. So you will answer to me, boy, and to only me. You will provide me with heirs whenever I desire it. You will let me fuck whomever I choose, and whenever I choose it, even if it's not with you."

Prince Arys nods underneath him, dazed-out and blinking Nicolas out of focus. " _Y-Yes_ …" he whines, shuddering when the knot shifts against one of his Omega-glands, charging pleasure through him.

"I didn't hear that," Nicholas warns him, squeezing his fingers harshly around the prince's jaw.

"Yes … yes, my lord."

The newly impregnated Prince Atys lifts his head, eager to kiss him and lick against Nicolas's molars, _suffocate_ himself against teeth and beard-scratchy flesh and a lusty, maddening dominance.

Kerris is _theirs_.

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 _All I had to do was write (1) one original work like thingie in like four years and now I feel like this can be an addiction sdanjsfnkj WELL THANK YOU FOR LETTING ME ATTEMPT THIS. This comes from the Darkest Night Exchange 2018 on AO3 for my giftee BiffElderBerry on AO3 so aah I really hope they like this! I had way too much fun imagining what exactly I could do from all of the choices you gave me! ❤ I hope anyone reading likes this too! Comments/thoughts appreciated! Even your dirty thoughts while reading will amuse the hell outta me sjkahfjsasfa I WANNA DO MORE ORIGINAL WORK KIND OF THINGIES  
_


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